Words
by Aly Teima
Summary: Prompts really, but sometimes it just takes one word...Will be a continuing series, chapter 5, Mine
1. Chapter 1

**Taken **

(For this excerpt, please pretend that John isn't wearing his sexy, sexy gloves that for some reason make me, uh….well you get the picture.) BTW, Martin Freeman is pure cute DNA.

Don't own Sherlock...can only gape at its incredibleness.

John stood in front of him, his face showing his pain and anger at being used like this. Against Sherlock. The explosives twinkled like demonic Christmas lights on his chest.

The doctor's deep blue eyes would barely meet his. Moriarty continued to speak but it was what Sherlock saw in John, _on_ John that made his gut twist with rage.

Everything told the story.

John, leaving the flat and hailing a taxi. Never reaching it, *_scalp slightly raised, head abrasion_* being knocked out.

Hands tied behind him *_scrapes on wrists, probably fingers too, trying to untie himself without success* _and gagged *_tape residue on mouth, lips dried from cloth, ensuring silence….*_

The rest Sherlock's considerable imagination made up in seconds. John, being held here and knowing that Sherlock was coming, yet still being threatened.

John Watson, telling his best friend, forgiven and loved time after undeserved time, the most terrible words Sherlock could hear.

Moriarty teasing him *_obvious through the nickname, through the sickening, casual, intimate gestures.* _

And now. Sherlock hadn't known that Moriarty hated him. He himself didn't usually feel such emotions, yet he did now. Jim Moriarty hated him and wanted him to suffer and if John's life didn't end tonight then the criminal would continue to play the game.

Sherlock held the gun to the explosives and John gave his slight nod. Brave, so brave even until the last. Moriarty wasn't going to hurt him, John or anyone else ever again.

**Weak**

Moriarty would have classified it as weak. Caring. At one time, to be honest at many times , Sherlock Holmes agreed. Caring was an effect of the glands, a driven- in response, an environmental social necessity.

Otherwise, one would be classified as a psychopath. Or a sociopath, a highly functioning sociopath.

John Watson was weak. He cared about people, helped people and kept trying to reach them even after his own life was torn apart by a terrorist's bullet.

Sherlock knew John was weak, knew it from the moment he saw him. But, two years later, it is he himself who doesn't understand the adjective.

John was short, everyone including him admitted it. But he never apologized for walking into a room and flirting with the most beautiful, maybe unobtainable woman in a room without a second thought.

He was ordinary. Dark blond hair, standard figure, an easy smile…. And he continued to try, and try, and try to help, to calm, to understand, to compliment, to fix.

He was a terrible dresser. Cardigans, those god awful jumpers, plaid shirts and corduroy everywhere. He still wore them, still cleaned them and still _bought_ them (though heaven only knew where) without explanation.

He pet dogs, fed stray cats and listened to all of Mrs. Hudson's ailments.

He used stairs instead of elevators. He pushed open doors without any button. He put money into charity jars.

Sometimes he covered Sherlock with a blanket, at night.

Tea was made in the morning, how he always knew what Sherlock wanted was still something the brilliant sleuth was discovering.

He was emotional and sentimental. He was slow and cloddish. His mind focused on the most mundane things.

He was weak.

Weak, yet…..

He was the strongest, bravest, kindest person Sherlock knew. He chose to stay at 221b Baker Street and answer texts at all manner of times. He allowed Sherlock to crash dates, interrupt meal times and berate him in all manners, in all forms.

And he still kept up with the long legged detective.

He blogged, laughed and shook his head every time Sherlock Holmes needed him to.

Sherlock always wanted to be strong and independent. He didn't know how he saw people and how he judged those who are weak.

He's seeing them now.

**Good **

Great

Beauty

Loyal

Heart

Text

**Betrayal**

It was the look, that _look_, that said it all. Sherlock Holmes, the robot, the sociopath, the _freak_. All a lie and all a cover.

How Dr. John H. Watson wished it wasn't, yet he knew. The look on Sherlock's face and his stunned body language. John bitterly wished that that the psychopath responsible for all of it would accept his role.

"John, what the hell-"

His eyes, it was his eyes that nearly broke John Watson.

_I trusted you, followed you, enabled you…you lectured me on human lives and I listened….and I shoudn't have cared. Yet you were the speaker, so I did._

_I cared about you_

Dr. Watson hadn't felt hate much in his life, yet he felt it now. The Great Sherlock Holmes done in by a wounded veteran and the psychopath using him as a puppet.

Those eyes, never breaking contact. John should maybe feel betrayed over the quick acceptance of his changing sides, he should be angry about Sherlock Holmes' inability to trust.

Yet, he doesn't feel such things

All he feels is love, understanding and trust. The moment Moriarty shows his hand (sooner than expected, truth be told) Sherlock's reaction, despite the danger he's in, is a joy.

After it's all over, the adrenalin rush, explosion and hushed words to a dear friend, Sherlock apologizes. Overcoming the shock, John wastes no time in accepting. This is, after all, Sherlock Holmes and apologizing doesn't even show up on his repitoire. What is there, after all, to apologize for?

Sherlock walks a still stiff and wounded John up the stairs to 221b Baker Street.

He is home, and safe for the moment.

John Watson grasps the taller man's arm before they enter the door. _Never, never, I would never_ his hand says and Sherlock Holmes grasps back. _I know…..now. I know._

Short

Humor

**Hostage**

Again. Happening again. Of course, Jim Moriarty would target John again. Sherlock knew it, he _knew it_ and yet he selfishly allowed himself to let John Watson, M.D. back into his life and his heart.

It shouldn't be so obvious. John, in harm's way, again.

Sherlock feels a bolt, no, a surge of rage. Never before has he wished for all of his brother's power and connections. To be fair, Mycroft has aided him throughout these hellish two days.

Moriarty has John. He's held him for two days and now he's making Sherlock watch as John struggles to free himself. Two days of videos and of John in different places. Two days of John being beaten, starved, tormented.

Moriarty never addresses the doctor, only Sherlock. John can hear him, of course and his fury can be seen through any camera.

Sherlock watches when John is taken, outside his clinic, bound and gagged and manhandled. Moriarty's men slap, kick and punch John as the criminal asks Sherlock questions he can't answer.

When he's left alone, John never stops trying to escape, even though Sherlock knows, can see that he hasn't had any food or water since the ordeal began.

Moriarty mocks Sherlock off screen. He watches John's futile efforts as well, enjoying them.

Hour 46 in (46 hours, 7 minutes and 4 seconds, Sherlock never stops counting) the detective knows that Lestrade has nearly given up. They won't find him and the only purpose behind all of this was to torture Holmes, successfully.

The only time Sherlock didn't take Moriarty seriously was the time he should have paid the most attention. The criminal is burning the heart out of him, slowly.

Hour 47 in, the sound is amped up and Sherlock's gut twists. Only one reason why. John is silent for awhile, not wanting to give in to Moriarty, then as the hour ticks down to its final ten minutes he begins speaking.

He talks about respect, admiration and friendship. No one has ever shown Sherlock the compassion and kindness that John Watson has and those ten minutes merely cement in what Sherlock has found he already knows. Then John talks about forgiveness….and love.

The building explodes.

John just shakes his head at the paramedics, police force and everyone else. Sherlock isn't letting him go any time soon and the doctor doesn't mind a bit.

Sherlock's long arms grabbed him as John made it out of the door, seconds to spare. Moriarty had stopped moving him and re-tying him in that last hour and John knows about knots.

As the criminal mocked them John was distracting him. Yet Sherlock knows, later when he can bare to watch the footage, that John meant everything he said.

The only one to never underestimate Dr. Watson, it would seem, was the one who so obviously would.

The building exploded and Sherlock pushed his smaller friend behind him, shielding his battered body. He hoisted the doctor up and hugged him, squeezing John's tender ribs. John held him as well, rubbing his back and murmuring meaningless phrases.

People might talk, let them. John continued to say "You're welcome" to Sherlock's gasping words.

Cold and heartless indeed.

At 221b Baker Street, after being embraced then force fed by Mrs. Hudson, texted by Mycroft and checked up on by half of Scotland Yard, John reflected on what it was like to be loved like this.

Sherlock was watching the footage. His entire body was tense and coiled and John just stood in the doorway.

His own words echoed around the room and John's bruised face remained sober.

Then the detective looked at him as John said his final statement on screen. His eyes were so amazingly vocal at times.

"I meant it, you know. Every word."

"I know."

And they both did. To Sherlock's continuing terror, however, so did someone else.

Question

**Love**

He'd just had a bomb strapped to his chest and a sniper's bullet aimed at his heart.

Sherlock didn't want to know what had happened before he arrived but his brilliant mind had already pieced together most of it.

"You okay?"

If Sherlock Holmes had a sense of humor he would have laughed and if he had a heart or a soul he would have been incredibly touched.

The smaller man was looking at him, large eyes full of understanding.

Then he made a joke. A _bloody_ joke!

After the bizarreness that was Moriarty, Sherlock came to the deduction he'd known for months now.

Subtext.

Men didn't tell each other such things, even with poor John's unfortunate ability to draw unwanted conclusions.

"Nicotine patches don't count as eating Sherlock."

"I know you look like a vampire, do you have to act like one as well? And I'm not even mentioning your fondness for bodily fluids."

"Are you ever going to set Angelo straight, pardon the pun?"

"Most people don't run out into traffic Sherlock, then most don't have your stunning intellect do they?"

"Chilly in here, not saying it a fifth time."

"Okay, not saying it a twelfth time."

"Hiding the gun was not juvenile, shooting the wall was juvenile."

"I don't have to set Mycroft on you, he's got trained killers waiting in the wings."

"Just take the damned blanket Sherlock."

"You're too thin." "You need to rest." "I went to medical school, I know how to define 'sociopath'."

"You don't know it's a different scarf, it's the same and I wouldn't go about replacing it just because you are fond of it so wipe that expression off of your face."

Every word pushed down to three and every emotion cleanly scrubbed down to one.

And John, it seemed, never needed to have it said back. More months went by.

He was waking up from a coma. Five days counting where Sherlock thought he'd lost him and had finally told him what he hoped John already knew.

Men like him just didn't _do_ sentiment.

A strong hand grasped his wrist and Sherlock looked up into large, deep blue eyes.

"I love you too." The raspy voice was like music to Sherlock's ears. John held his shaking shoulders calmly, kindly.

And it was a different scarf.

**Next;**

**Words, pt. 2**

**Good**

**Great**

**Texts**

**Freak**

**Loyalty**


	2. Chapter 2

Words, part 2

More word prompts. Trying to get the juices flowing from all of the plot bunnies currently attacking me. Of course I am still working on "The Equation" since its my baby but I love to flesh out and explore Sherlock and John's friendship.

Can be pre-slash if you squint but definitely more bromance.

Good

"_Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we're really lucky, he may even be a good one." DI Lestrade, "A Study in Pink"_

Good was not a word that Mummy or Mycroft would ever associate with young Sherlock. At an early age his intellect had far surpassed everyone's around, including nannies, teachers, tutors, the list went on.

At first it made him moody and anti-social, his frustration at not being able to communicate with others obviously disturbing him.

He never threw tantrums, however. He stopped crying at an early age, neither seeking nor giving comfort.

Their home was a comfortable one, even with an aristocratic, distant type of parenting, but Sherlock paced in it like a caged animal,

Autistic would be something to characterise him, his endless, constant energy, his inability to relate the proper emotions, his slow but sure isolation.

Mycroft watched him, watched as he started to implode before Sherlock came to a decision. Even now, over twenty years later, Mycroft's not sure the decision was for the best.

And some of those scars still existed, became physical track marks on the skin. Sherlock became acerbic, sarcastic, even downright cruel. He pulled further and further away from emotions, even going so far as to describe himself as a sociopath.

*Sociopath indeed* An individual with no concern for his/her actions and no understanding of or complete manipulation of those actions on others.

The manipulation he could see, the lack of understanding was more Sherlock's determination _not_ to understand.

He was lonely, he wouldn't admit it.

So he burned away the tension and his last remaining vestiges of _caring_. The drugs gave him an excuse to slow down his mind when it skyrocketed beyond even his control, and to finally push him into a complete emotional void.

Even with Lestrade and Mycroft's interference, both knew it was only a matter of time.

He was standing on a precipice.

He had a great mind and solved amazing crimes. He saved lives (not his ultimate goal), he solved murders (no empathy towards the victim, the families), he helped the police (civic duty was as foreign a word as any to Sherlock Holmes).

Mycroft Holmes didn't believe in miracles. Lestrade, imaginative man, believed somewhat in fate but the the elder Holmes had seen and machinated too much to know that everything had a purpose and a cause and effect.

So where did that leave Dr. John Watson?

Mycroft was determined to find out, not even 24 hours into the two's co-habitation. He sneered at the shorter doctor (no reaction), he tried to intimidate (no backing down).

And by the end of a surprisingly short interview, Mycroft Holmes was _not_ surprised that John Watson said no.

But he would figure out why if it was the last thing he did.

Not two days in and John Watson shot a murderous cabby (stopping Sherlock from doing something phenomenally stupid and reckless, that in of itself was a miracle).

"The making of my brother, or make him worse then ever." He still didn't quite understand what that meant, at least the first part.

Sherlock was already set, the clay emerged from the kiln. The drugs were slowly chipping him away and he didn't care about anything except occupying his mind until even that failed him.

Lestrade, Mycroft knew, still held out hopes that Sherlock could 'soften', that was the best term he could think of.

Become a good man, as if such things still existed.

He pitied the Detective Inspector, he had forced himself to give up such hopes a long time ago.

As time passed, however, Mycroft became more and more mystified.

On cases, in public, Sherlock would say something typically, well, Sherlock, and in the stunned silence, he actually reacted.

"Not good?" Always, always turning towards John Watson who would, with only a few words, _affectionately for god's sake_, let him know where he went wrong.

"_Why_ was she killed, Sherlock?"

"Oh for...doesn't matter John, only the method and if the killer will strike again."

"You've never asked why?"

"I ask why you're constantly badgering me."

John refused to give up, case after case.

"The father is over there."

"What for, he's nothing to do with the investigation? I've already ruled him out as a suspect."

"He wanted to see his son one last time."

"His son is dead, the effort is futile."

"Not to him."

Sherlock continued his recklessness and John continued to patch him up, berate him and continue the chase.

"Remind me, again, what possessed you to jump from that fire escape?"

"I could've reached it, just because your limbs are abnormally short."

"You _didn't_ reach it, Sherlock, hence the cracked ribs and twisted ankle. Hell, do you even realize what could have happened?"

"I could have caught the suspect if you hadn't distracted me."

"You went flying off of a FIRE ESCAPE! I'm not apologizing for being scared to death! You could've been impaled, broken both legs, how...oh, just take the damn pills before I shove them down your bloody throat."

"Always the need for such language, John."

And then, a breaking point. For John.

The row, from what Mycroft's cameras viewed, was spectacular. John completely lost his temper, throwing Sherlock's stash, needles, etc., out of the _window_ of 221b.

Mycroft made sure a team cleaned them up immediately but still the furious arguing went on.

Sherlock sat there, carved from stone. He would occasionally sneer at John, saying things that made the older man even more furious.

Finally, and Mycroft actually wished to hear what was said instead of just watching it, John clenched his fists, hung his head and walked out the door.

He was done.

Sherlock's only reaction was a flicker of the eyes and he sat there, arms folded, not caring. Mycroft cursed himself, later, for watching his petulant younger brother instead of the proper CCTV cameras trailing John.

There would be no way to tell if it was Moriarty (too random, but with the spider you could never tell) or just a random accident (John and Sherlock seemed to have too many of those for coincidence.)

The taxi flipped, the driver had been impaired. Sherlock would have known, could have deduced it if he'd been there.

That knowledge weighed his younger brother down like an anchor.

John slipped in and out of consciousness. His injuries weren't too severe, just severe enough to keep him under close observation for some time and to badly scare those who cared for Dr. Watson.

He'd called out Sherlock's name when coming to and Sherlock's face, still carved from stone, held agonized eyes.

Mycroft had thought he would need to pull strings to allow his younger brother into the good doctor's room, but no.

John Watson had signed Sherlock over as his next of kin, responsible for all medical decisions in their risky lifestyle. The date? Two months after they had met.

What had John seen and held onto that Lestrade merely hoped for and Mycroft had nearly given up on?

When John was released, Mycroft waited a week before dropping in at Baker Street. He was received with John's usual friendly reserve and Sherlock's hostility.

Some scrapes and a cast were all that remained of John's injuries but Sherlock's eyes kept flipping over to him.

Mycroft wondered if his brother knew it.

There was a slight tension in the air and Sherlock grumbled under his breath when Mycroft asked.

"The form, he thinks its some case he has to deduce." John said, shaking his head ruefully.

"I deal with _logic_ John and logically there is no way you should have done that." Sherlock snarled. Fear, Mycroft saw the fear. He hadn't seen it, that confusion of being out of his depth, for so long on his brother's face.

John was out of danger but Sherlock was still afraid.

"Are you sorry I did it?" John asked quietly, not breaking eye contact. "I can change it back."

"Of course not you idiot!" Sherlock snapped. "For god's sake would your inebriated sister have been a better choice?"

John's face flashed annoyance then settled. "The only choice, for a long time."

Sherlock froze. "I-I'm not...Mycroft don't you have some third world country to overthrow somewhere?"

Mycroft just sat twirling his umbrella. He realized that...he'd waited a long time for this, but his smooth features didn't show his, hope.

John sighed deeply. Sherlock wouldn't make the connection, once again John would try to show him. And hoped it would stick.

"You're my friend. I trust you, trusted you even then and I know you wouldn't let me down. Had the tables been turned, form or no, I would've done the exact same for you. You are a good man, Sherlock Holmes. Stop trying to fight it."

It was like a verbal bomb had gone off in the cramped room.

"G-good?" Sherlock sneered.

"Good." John answered, his deep blue eyes never breaking with Sherlock's icy ones. Mycroft sat there, wondering why he wasn't more stunned at the doctor's courage and faith.

Didn't need to wonder, truly, he'd seen it after only a few hours. *Very loyal, very quickly, indeed.*

"That's naus-"

"Good." John cut him off, wincing at he sat up straighter. Sherlock moved to help him instinctively, then froze.

John's smile lit up the room. "Good, for an egotistical, self-centered, socially inept, drama queen."

Mycroft later, safely in his own car and with Anthea's apathy, laughed so hard tears streamed down his face.

Days later, a body was found. A teenage girl, rape and murder. Open and shut case. She'd been missing for days, that was Sherlock's hook to even come and observe.

The parents were there, young themselves and the mother was weeping. John shoved his hands deep in his pockets, wondering not for the first time, why all of modern medicine couldn't cure a broken heart.

Sherlock walked over to the mother and the entire crime scene froze.

"She didn't suffer. It was quick, in the end." He mumbled actually looking, uncomfortable?

"I'm sorry." He stomped over to John without waiting for a reply.

A chill wind picked up. "Good?" Sherlock asked John quietly and John grabbed his elbow, squeezing.

"Good."

**Kitten**

(AN; Okay, this wasn't even planned and its a bonus. I got the idea after reading KCS's _wonderful_ stuff about kid!John. If you haven't read it, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? It's so amazing. She's very nice about answering feedback and her live journal has accompanying art.

The second, obvious inspiration is Mr. Martin Freeman himself who, as we all know, is a kitten in a jumper wrapped up in adorableness for us all to enjoy.

Gotta love Mycroft's constant meddling, hee...)

Something was amiss.

Usually Mycroft didn't take this much time when he hauled the hapless doctor in for 'questioning'.

His _dear_ older brother wasn't answering his texts either.

Sherlock was getting suspicious and a suspicious Sherlock could mean an apocalypse forthcoming.

Then he got angry. Then he was just out and out concerned.

Finally the door to 221b opened and Sherlock jumped up, ready to explode or pump the hapless doctor for information.

Instead he saw...Anthea. Holding John's jumper. Sherlock's heart jumped into his throat and time seemed to slow down.

"Where is my brother?" He growled, fists tightening.

"Hiding." Anthea said, completely calm.

Sherlock blinked.

Mrs. Hudson, surprisingly, was right behind the striking PA. She was holding a bowl and her feather duster.

Sherlock, for the first time he could remember, could deduce nothing from the situation.

"Sherlock, dear. Perhaps you should sit down."

Sherlock felt his heart skip another beat, but Mrs. Hudson didn't seem sad, or even upset. Her mouth kept twitching, she kept shooting John's jumper side glances.

Anthea sighed, a long suffering sound, and held it out.

"Lab, he was bored waiting, asked for some tea. The assistant got the wrong milk. It'll wear off as soon as it passes through his system, but you'd better get some clothes on him before then."

Sherlock's jaw dropped.

"Mycroft made the young idiot drink the same milk as punishment and your brother is now out of the country. In case you're wondering."

She marched out after handing the jumper (gently, very gently Sherlock noted) over to Mrs. Hudson who took it with a soft look on her face.

"John...?"

She pulled a fluffy, yellowish cream kitten out of John's jumper. The kitten meowed at Sherlock, it's huge blue eyes wide.

"Oh my..."

Mrs. Hudson cuddled the kitten to her, cooing.

"Isn't he the most precious thing?"

Sherlock Holmes was without words.

"Of course, looking at your dear doctor, one wouldn't be surprised. I wonder what you would be Sherlock?" The landlady actually looked mischevious.

"I'm sure you'd make a very cute porcupine."

The kitten meowed loudly and moved up on Mrs. Hudson' shoulder. Her expression melted.

"Mrs, Mrs. Hudson...you do realize, that's JOHN?"

The kitten arched its, no his, *oh gods this cannot be happening to me* back at Sherlock.

"Now Sherlock, you're upsetting him." Mrs. Hudson cuddled the kitten to her and kissed him repeatedly on the head.

"Mrs. Hudson! I don't, no I'm sure that John does not appreciate that."

The kitten started purring traitorously.

Mrs. Hudson motioned for Sherlock to take the bowl of, Sherlock sniffed, milk? Cream? and the feather duster.

"And what, pray tell, am I supposed to do with these?" Sherlock asked, the height of damaged dignity in his posture.

"Put the bowl down for him to drink and use the feathers to play with him, just until it wears off."

"And when in God's name will that be?" Sherlock shouted.

The kitten, John, narrowed its eyes and Sherlock could almost see his flatmate's glare in the fluffy face.

"Now, Anthea was kind enough to provide some necessities, John's clothes that were, ahem, left and even a litter box."

"A What?"

"Litter box, dear." She said slowly. "Surely you can't expect the poor thing to just go anywhere?"

Sherlock gaped. "He's a thirty-nine year old man! I'm not putting him into a sand box!"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "Fine, but don't expect me to clean up after him. The formula has to pass through y'know."

She held the kitten up to her face, made some kissy noises then set him down.

Sherlock felt like his head would explode. "Where are you going?" He yelled, his voice desperate.

"Down to get your supplies, then out for tea later. I'm sure you and the doctor will sort this out eventually."

She gently placed John into Sherlock's waiting, outstreched hands. He held the kitten, no, JOHN, as far from him as possible.

Guileless blue eyes stared back before the kitten started to squirm.

"What on earth do you want?" Sherlock moaned before sharp little claws broke his skin.

"Ouch, you wretched puff..." John landed on his feet, typical cat. Sherlock wondered ungraciously why human John couldn't be as graceful.

Mrs. Hudson caught him dropping his flatmate. "Honestly Sherlock!" she tutted, "he's still your doctor you know."

"He's not _my_ doctor and that, thing, is definitely not...wait, where is he?"

Sherlock actually felt a touch of panic before the kitten re-emerged from under the sofa, tearing around the legs.

Mrs. Hudson giggled then moved to set the litter box *gah* into the bathroom.

Sherlock couldn't keep track of the hyperactive little fur ball. He was tearing around 221b as if he owned the place.

Mrs. Hudson re-emerged and started downstairs.

"Wait, I, he won't stop running around!"

"Not your pet-sitter, dear!" was her final parting shot.

Okay, first things first.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted, I WILL KILL YOU twenty times to Mycroft.

No answer. Coward.

He looked up to the sounds of scratching. A small kitten had its claws sunk into Sherlock's coat and was climbing its way up to his scarf.

"Oh no, get down immediately, cat, you, JOHN!"

He went to grab the kitten but John bolted through his legs and headed for the mantle.

He was just about to knock the skull off when Sherlock grabbed him (gentle for all of his frustration.)

"Here, here!" He grabbed the feather duster and started poking John with it. John looked less than amused at first but finally began attacking it ferociously.

Sherlock just turned his back for a moment but returned to feathers all over the flat.

"That is it. Until you return to a _slightly_ less annoying version of yourself, you stay here."

He dumped John into the bathroom and went to close the door. Two minutes later he put Mrs. Hudson's bowl inside and left it at that.

It truly was the oddest thing. Even here, in this utterly unbelievable and ridiculous situation, he could still feel John's presence.

An annoying, mewling, crying, scratching presence.

And Sherlock did _not_ feel guilty. Not one bit. John finally quieted down, with only a few sad mews every few minutes.

Then a small paw reached under the door and grabbed.

Sherlock grit his teeth. For the love of all that's rational...

"John Hammish Watson, you will regret this if its the last thing I ever see to." He grumbled, then opened the door

John looked at him, it was just, weird, that the eyes were so similar.

"Well? You wanted out, now what? Since you've already made a mockery of me."

The kitten started rubbing against his legs.

"Stop that immediately!" Sherlock nearly stumbled over his own feet backing up.

The kitten knelt, shook its little, _behind_ and came after him charging.

Sherlock landed with an *umph* on the couch and suddenly John was on his leg.

"Ouch! Damn you John, I should have you de-clawed right now before you turn back, would serve you right."

The kitten looked at him, still kneading.

Sherock sighed deeply. "If you were going to turn into anything, _doctor_, did it have to be so abominably, cute?" He shuddered on the last word.

He brought his face close to the kitten's and suddenly, without warning, a little pink tongue scraped against his nose.

"GAH! John, that is disgusting!"

Unperturbed, John hopped off Sherlock's lap and flopped on his back, stretching, obviously wanting his belly rubbed.

"Honestly, dignity John. I am _not_ doing that"

John started purring, a small motor boat of sound. He rested his little head against Sherlock's leg, yawned and fell asleep.

Just like that.

Sherlock felt some deducing was in store. One minute the cat was mistrustful, then hyperactive, then needy, now finally...

Oh gods, it really and truly _was_ John all over then. Sherlock grinned and before he could even think to stop himself, he reached over and began to strock the silky soft fur.

Trust. The little animal trusted him completely.

Sherlock felt something odd build inside of him.

Hours later, (and a few un, rest breaks for the kitten, thank goodness the formula was apparently, exiting, his friend) Sherlock was at a crossroads.

He finally decided to put a sleeping John under the table *inner smirk* and covered the little body with a blanket.

Five more hours later and Sherlock was roused by a loud, "OUCH!" with the sound of a head hitting the bottom of the table.

He waited.

"Sherlock! What the HELL is going on?"

He was almost tempted to tell him.

When the sun rose John (still rubbing the top of his head) refused to look at Sherlock until the detective explained that he had gone out drinking, must have had too many and that was the reason for the, ahem, embarassment of waking up completely starkers.

John, although he could usually see right Sherlock, bought it. Probably because he desperately wanted to.

Sherlock spent the rest of the morning buried behind the paper.

"Sherlock, _why_ does it smell like cat in here? And why does it feel like I slept with a horse blanket in my mouth?"

John didn't notice the newspaper mysteriously shaking.

He glanced up to see John staring at the mutilated feather duster thoughtfully. Horror crossed his face and a bright red flush crept up his neck.

"I am going to _destroy_ your brother." He finally stammered.

"Only after I'm through with him." Sherlock said calmly. "Oh, and _you_ are getting rid of that litter box."

This was one of the funnest things I have ever written in my life. I hope you enjoyed it too. Martin Freeman is _made_ of kittens!


	3. Chapter 3

Words

AN; So I've given up on numbering these things since basically they are just prompts and they are getting longer and longer, like little ficlets but they are fun so I hope you enjoy them too :-)

Next, Deduction. Also, I have written 90 % of the next chapter of Equation, for those that care :-) but its on another computer 3,000 miles away right now LOL, I'll have it posted probably by Sunday.

Sherlock BBC belongs to Moffat and Gatiss, I am only humbled by their genius. No money made.

Names

Sherlock Holmes.

An unusual name for an extremely unusual man.

People's reaction to the name was varied. Incredulous, sceptical, 'Really? Sherl-ock?'

Many, many times it was said with hostility and scorn.

John Watson pronounced Sherlock's name like no one else he knew.

He finished it with a funny little *click* at the end.

It was like a door opening, a key turning, a puzzle being unlocked.

Sherlock loved it.

And there was more. John could use insults as terms of endearment, idiot, git, others even more colorful, and have them be nothing but affection.

And still, when John uses Sherlock's name it meant one hundred different things and the detective was only now beginning to understand how much could be inflected.

Sherlock! Shouted 'you idiot, you scared me to death, how can I protect you unless you stop leaving me behind?'

Sherlock, Exasperated 'I know you're better than this, stop being a prat.'

Sherlock, Pleading 'Stop shutting me out, please.'

Sherlock, Tired 'I am nearly at the end of my limits, I care about and respect you, but my gods one more push...'

Sherlock, Amazement (one of Sherlock's favorites) 'My god, how did you...when did you...you are FANTASTIC!'

Sherlock, Soft and forceful 'You're hurting, I can see it and I'm not going anywhere until I can help somehow.'

Every tone and inflection shows John's feelings and Sherlock can't tune them out, no matter how he's tried.

The doctor's concern is like gentle acid, eating away at his cold, uncaring persona daily.

But it was the way it was whispered in disbelief, anger, hurt and absolute, complete JOY that finally broke Sherlock's heart.

'You're not dead, you're NOT DEAD! You're here, with me. I, you cannot know, I missed you so much.'

Sherlock, repeated again and again as the smaller man sobbed into the detective's chest. Sherlock Holmes, such a complicated man and an eccentric name, held onto his dearest friend and let his eyes spill over.

And Sherlock's returning 'John', one syllable that meant everything to the man referred to.

John Watson

So common, very common. One of the most common names in many languages.

A common name for a common man.

But the way Sherlock Holmes pronounced it, with a slight emphasis on the 'J', like a salute or anything that would show affection in the detective's own bizzare way, made it more than that.

It made it seem like John was a part of Sherlock's life, even with the slight possessiveness of the name.

John loved it.

Sherlock knew, now, that assuming anything about John was ridiculous, especially before scratching the surface of this seemingly 'common' man. It was to be in the wrong.

John, the name in all of its possibilities, summed up his friend who _knows_ him and accepts him without question or apology.

So, the inflection is one that Sherlock knows, inherently, that John understands.

John, Warningly, 'I don't have time for your trivia.'

John, Sneered, 'You can't convince me of anything. You don't know me or what I was before, who I can truly be.'

Jo-ohn Whine 'Bored, bored, bored, bored...'

John, Direct 'You have it and I will use the Sherlock equivalent of puppy-dog eyes to get it.' This one never works, however.

John, Sighed 'Dull, so dull, but I'm listening regardless'

John, Slight upper inflection at the end 'Your input, I value it, I need it. You are my conductor of light.'

John!, Shouted and excited, 'Keep up will you? You are as on board as me, the game is ON!'

John! An exclamation, 'I'm terrified, you are my weakness, they have my weakness...my heart.'

And then, a word whispered and a grasping hand. One tender syllable that only meant 'Please'. Please. Please don't leave me, I'll be alone, again. You are my best friend, my only true friend. I can't go back to before. Please John, please come back to me.

And John, no, John Watson, such a simple name really, could never refuse that plea. He grasped the other's hand and all of the affection and love one thought was lost came flooding back.

'Sherlock.' Tenor voice, a small click at the end of the word.

'John.' Deep baritone, small emphasis on the 'J'

Music to the other's ears.


	4. Chapter 4

Words; prompt, Deduction

BBC Sherlock isn't mine, no money made. Bows to creators.

Sherlock's powers of deduction were uncanny, no one doubted that. It was like a magic trick, but no, Sherlock insisted, just logic and seeing; seeing and observing, something most had no interest in doing.

Seeing what was right in front of your face.

So it might come as a surprise to some to know that there were a few times, sparklingly rare, when Sherlock Holmes didn't _want_ to see what was being thrown (for him) blatantly in his face.

_The door was ajar, break in. Sherlock's mind went into overdrive._

_Scratches on the walls, fibers from a jumper, faint smell of Mrs. Hudson's perfume._

_The detective's eyes narrowed and his mouth set. His landlady being dragged up the stairs, frightened._

_Her cry echoed in his ears, 'Sherlock!' and he hadn't been here. A black, cold rage began settling over him._

_Every step, every speck of dust, every imprint that didn't belong in 221b process in his mind with lightning speed._

_He entered the room, completely unsurprised to find Mrs. Hudson sitting there, tears streaming down her face._

_The man, no thug, blood on his ring, scratch on Mrs. Hudson's face, held a gun close to her head. Sherlock's rage blossomed hot and dangerous._

_His eyes pinpointed every fragile, potentially lethal spot on the agent's body. Sherlock Holmes wanted blood._

_It was so simple, incredibly simple, to outsmart cretins like these. The head butt (thank you for the lesson John) was just an added bonus that Sherlock enjoyed entirely._

There Sherlock's deduction had pointed out the obvious. It always was to him, but the agents wanted him to see it, to intimidate him. Bad idea.

Other times it was a the opposite, something he wasn't supposed to see (impossibility that) that helped save a friend.

_There was a dirty cop in Scotland Yard. Sherlock had known it for months but the suspect had been frustratingly difficult to pinpoint. _

_Sherlock quickly dismissed both Anderson and Donovan, neither had the imagination to try to fool him (or the motive to harm DI Lestrade, Sherlock grudgingly admitted)._

_But _someone_ did. Bullets didn't just disappear from a gun moments before a shootout (luckily for back-up)._

_Information was being leaked, evidence stolen, Lestrade was tracing it and he was getting too close. Good thing Sherlock was even closer, and watching._

_It wasn't as if he actually _cared_ about the man, Sherlock reasoned to himself. Without Lestrade, he knew he wouldn't be allowed ten feet (legally) close to one of his beloved crime scenes. _

_His mind would shrivel up with boredom and he would turn to other vices. _

_It was the silence and...emptiness of 221b, despite charming Mrs. Hudson downstairs, that was making him worried._

_Or maybe it was the talk that the DI had with him when he was hauled in, blood oozing from an elbow._

_Sherlock retaliated sometimes by stealing IDs and basically being a pain in the ass on a regular basis to counter the fact that the DI's words actually, sunk in. _

_Hearing someone with at least two brain cells to rub together speak calmly and coolly about wasting his life and talents, despite Sherlock's sneers and insults wasn't something the younger detective could delete._

_So, maybe, yeah, he actually liked Detective Inspector Lestrade, despite his appalling team and disgusting 'concerns' about Sherlock relapsing. _

_They would never truly be friends, Sherlock had long since given up on the saccharine idea that he would have a _friend_, but the older man was someone that Sherlock would like to keep around._

_And Lestrade wasn't making it easy on him._

_Whoever it was was circling closer. Sherlock broke into NSY's records to check for any out of place transfers and substitutions. _

_He scanned evidence check-ins for thefts, he watched Lestrade's shifts like a hawk._

_Finally, he had (for obvious reasons) to break in unannounced. _

_Footsteps, unknown show size, in the DI's office. Mud shows intruder to be frequently on the beat, in bad weather recently, shoe size average._

_Erratic movements, indentations in the carpet show nervousness, bad news. This one was getting desperate._

_Desk rifled through then carelessly put together again, chair pulled up close to the desk when Sherlock knew that Lestrade usually jumped out of it and left it twirling, not bothering._

_Smudge on a document, name smeared then re-written. No, see and observe, written over._

_Sherlock was out of the door of NSY like a shot._

_He barked instructions to the cab driver and slipped an extra ten pound note to blantantly speed. When the driver asked about the police Sherlock creatively insulted him first, then shouted that he bloody well _hoped_ they would run into them._

_That was the point._

_It was a young man, desperate, in over his head with debt and growing alcoholism. Pinching from the evidence room was feeding a lifestyle but Lestrade had gotten too close._

_He held the gun up, Lestrade's back to him. Fingers trembling, he pulled the trigger just as a tall, lanky detective barreled into him._

_The shot went wide, not very well aimed to begin with, but it still grazed Greg Lestrade's arm._

_The entire team turned in shock as Sherlock viciously punched the young cop over and over. Papers and shifts changed just for this opportunity to get to the DI._

_Lestrade knew then that Sherlock was a great man and was grateful to know him. But he also knew it wasn't enough. He thanked the detective again and again for saving him until Sherlock finally grew so abrasive Lestrade couldn't handle it anymore._

_The younger man was too afraid to care and had already deduced that he could._

_Sherlock wished he hadn't had his ability then, it was one of the first times that it frightened him._

And sometimes, the curse of his mind and his powers of logic came as a combination, a terrible fear that he knew exactly what was happening but had miscalculated and couldn't stop events slowly unfolding.

Because he cared...

He'd lost John in the dark alleys, their one suspect turning into two, then three, spooked from their planned meeting place by the detective and the doctor.

Sherlock knew they wouldn't be skittish for long, especially if they knew he and John didn't have back up and John didn't have his gun. It'd been such a mad cap ordeal to get this far.

Sherlock grit his teeth. He should have anticipated there would be more than one, but his analysis of the original suspect hadn't given any such information away, surprisingly.

He'd just seemed so, lackluster, a pawn or lackey really...

Sherlock froze as the information slammed into his brain and he processed it, lightning quick.

His mind never stopped as he scanned the walls, the ground. He didn't call out, didn't dare.

Every detail, every clue...something, there must be something and yet he didn't want to be proven right.

He found it.

Jumper fibers, light cream (John had been wearing his jacket, was pushed facing into the wall then) on rough brick.

Marks, light, then deeper in the dirt. A struggle, but no noise.

Other men, the other suspects? One, no three; John outnumbered and outmuscled, silenced somehow.

Dragged scuff marks, Sherlock followed them with obsessive intensity.

Mere feet away, knee marks. Why? John's, he knew, Sherlock Holmes never guessed. Yet for what purpose?

A whispered panic broke his thoughts, 'Where is he? Who's responsible?" Yet Sherlock knew, again, the answers, never guessing. He viciously pushed his traitorous thoughts away, emotions wouldn't help now, no matter what his racing heart said.

Focus, concentrate, deduce...

More signs, there had to be more. Which direction? Here, the soil was dustier, definitely three men to try to subdue one.

Sherlock smirked, don't underestimate 5'7" tea-loving John Watson.

Still, where? The scuffle marks were growing fainter, Sherlock looked elsewhere. Evidence, it was here, right before his eyes. Find it.

There, more jumper fibers against the wall. The first sign of blood against brick.

The jumble of footprints revealed something else behind it. Two indentations, expensive shoes, smaller size, standing behind the others. Giving orders.

Sherlock's blood ran cold.

_*I owe you*_

_*Everyone has their pressure points...what's yours, sexy?*_

The smell of expensive cologne, the shoes, the walk, every detail gave something away.

_*Follow, follow me, Sherlock!* _He could hear the venemous whisper. _*It's really _too_ obvious*_

The dirt changed to mud. John was still conscious, still fighting, evidence in the smeared path.

Then the cologne scent mixed with foul water, rusty metal and an open flow to the Thames. The smell of fish, rot, corruption; the man's true nature.

"Moriarty!" Sherlock bellowed, letting his deep, powerful voice echo in the metal pipe. "Show yourself!"

"Not yet." A giggly voice whispered, coming from behind, around, in front, all around him. "Come on and find me, Sherlock, I have something you wa-ant!"

Sherlock was shaking with rage but his features were icy still.

"I'm not playing your games now Jim."

"Oh yes you are, and so is _he_."

"Release the doctor, you wanted to draw me out, I'm here. None of this involves him."

More giggles, close this time. Behind him.

"You're wrong Sherlock, he's just _sooo_ much fun to play with, especially when you're too, too careless!"

"Show him to me!" Sherlock shouted, voice thick.

A hard shove landed between his shoulder blades and the detective almost went down.

"Miss me?" Moriarty sneered, appearing in front of him. The criminal snapped his fingers, letting his goons drag John out into the open.

Sherlock saw everything in a split-second and blood pounded in his temples, hot, dangerous, no, deadly.

John's face, scrape on cheek and temple, bruise on cheek, favoring shoulder, the rough grip on him causing bruises Sherlock knew he'd see and count later. Every one of them.

Then to John himself, bound and gagged, his eyes infuriated, flashing an apology to Sherlock with one glance.

Sherlock disregarded it. He had to get John, and secondly himself, to safety.

Three men, split second deduction.

Weak knee, asthma, trick ankle, slower reaction for one, beginnings of arthritis...the list went on.

Conclusion. Take them out with minimal effort to get his friend out of harm's way. He met John's gaze and nodded, miniscule. And he knew, never guessed, that John understood.

But there was still Moriarty.

The consulting criminal grinned toothily.

"Bring him to me, then."

John was dragged over. Sherlock clenched his fists.

"Oh Johnny boy, your patheticness really does make one sick." Arm around John's shoulders who tried to jerk away violently. "I should help you, and everyone else, out of their misery by putting the this little puppy down."

"Still, Sherlock over there isn't nearly as much fun to play with without you."

Sherlock let Moriarty taunt, thinking past the words and seeing the criminal put his guard down.

Then the crack and an opportunity.

One glance to John and another tiny nod. Message received.

And it all seemed to happen at once.

Sherlock moved in a blur, a kick, push and swift jab in every direction. John Watson threw his head back.

Two, then three thugs down. A crack of a broken nose. Button in the pocket pushed and Sherlock grabbed John, pulling him behind the pipe.

Arms freed first, as fast as possible then Sherlock gently helped him remove the gag.

Seconds later, the detective's hands were digging into John's arm, keeping the smaller man with him. The doctor didn't complain, however.

Sirens in the distance, Lestrade must have been expecting the call.

Moriarty's shouts of rage, tinged with pain Sherlock was glad to hear, echoed around both before the sirens drowned him out.

"I will kill your mangy pet for this Sherlock! I will torture him and make you watch!" Insanity in every word.

Sherlock looked to John who met his icy blue eyes, outwardly calm; the worry was mirrored in the older man's deep blue orbs, though.

"Nice, deducing that." John said, still catching his breath.

"You too." Sherlock's hands rested on John's shoulders for a moment. John's hands moved to his arms.

"You too."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimers, same as first chapters. Nothing has changed, including my hero-worship of everyone who brought Sherlock to me. No money made, all credit to BBC, etc.

Also, major SPOILERS for Reichenbach. If you have not seen or are offended, DO NOT READ! There is dialogue and events that give, um things away. You have been warned.

Mine

The moment Moriarty said John's name Sherlock felt every muscle in his body tense. He didn't show it, no, he'd been anticipating this since James Moriarty had, or hadn't rather, started mounting his 'defense' at the so called trial of the century.

It was the unnatural, _familiar_ the way he said John's name, the way it just rolled off of his tongue, that made Sherlock's fury go from icy-hot to near volcanic.

*Don't show him, remember, remember….The Pool, remember. He Knows.*

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Asking why Moriarty was doing this was futile. He was stalling for time. Keep John away, keep him away from all of this.

"I owe you a fall, Sherlock."

The apple, the inscription.

Eyes flitted from across the mirror at 221b. John, casually knotting his tie as Sherlock's gaze settled on him.

John was a grown man, a soldier for god's sake; Sherlock couldn't make him stay at 221b, away from Moriarty's poison.

In truth, he wanted John there, not to keep him himself in check (the doctor would fail anyway) but just to have his loyal, comforting presence helping Sherlock, the way it always helped him, even if John himself didn't know it.

"He's a spider, a spider at the center of a web…."

And Sherlock would never let John be tangled up in that web, not after what the mad man tried. And may try again.

_I owe you._

Later, John described how Moriarty had smirked at him from his position at the defendant's seat. Sherlock pictured it with perfect clarity, and his stomach clenched.

_I owe you, Sherlock._

You can harass me, taunt me, even try to burn me Jim Moriarty. But you stay away from what's Mine.

And He is Mine.

_Daddy loves me the most, aren't ordinary people _adorable_?_

_You think I don't know what he means to you, Sherlock Holmes?_

_Pressure point._

Two months in, Sherlock watching every move the doctor made, and he still couldn't voice his rage about the way Mycroft manhandled John this time. He certainly tried though; he hoped Mycroft's ear was permanently damaged.

And yet he still couldn't believe the worst was yet to come.

Moriarty had made a promise, two promises now. They both came back to the same thing, destroying what was Sherlock's.

His reputation, any respect others may have had for him, his privacy, even his safety.

But that wasn't the final problem, oh no.

Sherlock had assumed that Moriarty thought Sherlock's life was the last thing he could take from the detective.

Once again, he'd underestimated the consulting criminal.

It was Sherlock's life he'd take, true, with the horror of keeping Sherlock breathing, thinking, functioning.

He would tear out Sherlock's beating heart when he took away John Watson.

Just because John was His.

Sherlock cracked John's computer password in less then ten seconds.

He hoped the doctor would continue to change it (he did) so that Sherlock could continue to break it (the detective did).

He enjoyed this extra, small way of looking into John Watson's mind, on the surface so ordinary but the extraordinary tendencies it possessed never failed to amaze Sherlock Holmes.

He wasn't used to being amazed.

He wasn't used to being figured out either.

John knew that Sherlock would always crack his password. Yet, he continued to change it. John never underestimated Sherlock.

Conclusion, John knew Sherlock enjoyed it; therefore he continued to do it and continued to sound annoyed. (John truly annoyed and John sounding annoyed were very different things, as the former was so rare that it stood out blatantly.)

He did it because Sherlock enjoyed both aspects of swiping John's laptop.

He let Sherlock swipe his food (at least you're actually eating) his tea (why didn't you just say yes when I asked if you wanted a cup as well?) even his time (for heaven's sake, I'm with a patient…..FINE JW)

Yet he never took anything from Sherlock and the detective found himself eventually wondering why.

When he asked John just shrugged. "What's mine is yours I suppose."

"That didn't answer my question, John."

"You've already given me what I needed and wanted, voluntarily. Before I could even start being your personal grocer slash errand boy."

Sherlock was perplexed and it showed.

John looked up at him and Sherlock saw that his dark, blue eyes were almost, tender. He gestured slightly around them.

"221b?"

A nod. "And?"

Conversations echoed in the room and Sherlock's eyes almost flitted over to where John's cane stood in the corner, gathering dust and forgotten.

*_Want to see some more?*_

"That's ridiculous, I _needed_ an assistant."

John shrugged. "Well, I don't play the violin or have a leaning towards body parts and hazardous chemicals so it'll have to do. And I still stand by what's mine is yours if you really need it, not that you actually ask."

"And it wasn't ridiculous to me."

Sherlock looked at him for a long time. "What's mine is yours as well, John."

John's kind face softened. "Thank you, Sherlock." The words stretched back to include months gone by. The tone reflected so much that Sherlock never realized. And it actually made him, happy; that he'd never deduced it so that John could show and tell him.

John's adrenaline level had gone down, albeit at a much slower rate than Sherlock's

Of course, John had been in the, company, of Moriarty for much longer than the consulting detective.

Sherlock grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He was helping John in and out of their taxi, back to Baker Street, even though John insisted that, aside from his goons, Moriarty hadn't really hurt him.

John was being vague but he was still his calm, optimistic self. Sherlock wanted this reaction, of course, but a different one would have been so much more in keeping.

John should be screaming at him for his arrogance, his idiocy, for lying to him. He had practically gift-wrapped the doctor and handed him over to that, mad man.

A slight clearing of the throat and Sherlock looked down to where he was grasping John's elbow. Sherlock's knuckles were white.

"Ouch."

"Sorry!" Sherlock jumped back as John opened the door to 221b.

"It's all right. Really, it's fine."

"But, John…"

John turned on the staircase. "Oh we'll discuss it but not right now. And not in that way."

"What way?" Sherlock grumbled in spite of himself.

John gave a short laugh. "There's no way _you_ can pretend to be stupid Sherlock. "

Sherlock met his friend's, best friend's eyes.

He plowed ahead.

"Why aren't you angry with me?"

"Did you tell Moriarty to kidnap me, some elaborate joke between the two of you that I'm the heel of?"

"Of course not."

John took a step closer to the taller man.

"Stop blaming yourself. You were an arrogant, idiotic sod, definitely. But Moriarty plays by a different set of rules Sherlock."

John sighed deeply and ran a hand through his short, blonde hair. "I've been trying to tell you, I…I hope that…"  
>"What? That I see it now?" Sherlock snapped furiously.<p>

"That, well, you'll remember."

"Remember what, John?" Sherlock was becoming angry. These emotions, too much of a rollercoaster in one night. He, _he_ of all people, was losing control and John's calm understanding was putting unfamiliar pressure on his chest.

"Remember that he snatched you right off the street? That you won't tell me what he said or did? That you could have been killed maimed…"

"Sherlock."

"Remember that that, _bastard_ actually had the gall, the audacity to take you away from me, and lay his hands on, threaten what's Mine!"

Stunned silence.

Sherlock felt sick. It had all come out in a rush and now there would be, misunderstandings. For the first time, he actually understood how John felt when he tried to correct stupid people and their assumptions.

John would look at him now and his eyes would be changed and Sherlock didn't think he could stand that. John would join the ranks of Donovan and co., calling him a freak and a psychopath and believing it.

John, loyal, kind John, so different from that evil man who had distracted Sherlock from the one thing the detective might possibly kill for.

"John, I, when I said that, I meant…."

"Shut up, Sherlock." Sherlock's dark, curly head jerked up in surprise. There was no malice there whatsoever.

Only the older man's deep blue gaze that held something that Sherlock couldn't place. And Sherlock Holmes had a category for everything.

"He did it to hurt you, hurt us. We can't change that. I can keep begging you to just tell me before a situation like this can happen, let me continue to, if I even am, help you."

"Of course you are."

"But will you?" John almost looked, sad. Unacceptable.

"I know you understand, Sherlock. Now, at least." John put his hands on the lanky detective's shoulders.

"Understand what, exactly, John?"

"Draw a deduction, Mr. Consulting Detective." John gave him a brief hug which startled Sherlock into rigidity.

The doctor chuckled and continued his way upstairs.

None of John's reactions tonight made any sense. This is what John Watson did and Sherlock could not deduce a conclusion about the smaller man. He knew John's eating habits, sleeping habits, favorite tea, number of jumpers and shoe size.

The layers, however, continued to surprise him, underneath what he could see on the surface.

And suddenly there it was. Once more, so Obvious.

John wasn't angry or outraged at tonight's events or even Sherlock's blurted statement. John saw Sherlock in the same way. Mine.

And in the days and months that followed, Sherlock did not miss the game or James Moriarty. Something fundamental had changed.

He got a text, however, directly to his own phone. John was puttering about in the kitchen, grumbling about the eyelashes mixed in with a perfectly good tub of margarine and Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eye, his trademark half-smile on his face.

He pulled out the phone. It read

You think you can play this game and keep him safe? You need to learn to share, Sherlock Holmes. JM

He never answered John's repeated questions as to why he hurled the phone out of the window.

"One more miracle, for me."

It took everything in Sherlock's remarkable stamina not to reveal himself at that moment.

"Just, stop it, stop this…." John was crying softly and Sherlock's heart, everything that had changed so vitally inside of him felt like it was being pulled out. Torture.

Those words, terrible and beautiful. "And no one can convince me that you told me a lie."

_Why are you saying this?_

_Shut up, Sherlock just shut up. You knew…._

'_No one could be that clever.'_

_You could_

_You could_

_You could_

Sherlock knew he didn't deserve John's loyalty or his love but this went beyond anything he could know or research about human nature.

His John turned and walked away. Moriarty had certainly been a man of his word, even with John Watson alive, thank god, yet mourning.

Only a few days before, the faith and loyalty of the ex-soldier cemented what Sherlock had to do.

_St. Bart's lab was quiet and John's eyes were drooping. Sherlock watched him and thought about Molly's words. Did he look, sad, now? When there was, perhaps, every reason to?_

_*Would you still help me even if….*_

"_Why didn't you ask me?" Sherlock said suddenly, jerking John out of his light doze._

"_Hmm?" The doctor looked at him blearily._

"_If it was true. He had documents, photographs; even I could have been taken in by that performance."_

_*And it makes sense, in some ways* was the unspoken conclusion to that train of thought._

"_Oh, even you huh? No chance for us mere mortals?" John smirked._

"_Don't avoid the question, John." Sherlock frowned and wondered why._

"_Yes, Sherlock, I will because it's absolutely ridiculous." John's scorn was evident in every syllable._

_Now Sherlock looked at him._

"_Please, do you honestly believe that after a year of watching you and what you can do with that brain of yours that I would be taken in by a manila folder and a vindictive journalist?"_

_Sherlock felt something warm grow inside of his chest, right alongside the cold and the dread. _

"_Why, John?" And his voice actually, unbelievably, cracked. "Why this, you, why are you….?"_

_John just shook his head and stretched. "You're smarter than him, and especially Kitty." The doctor spat the name. "And we'll get out of this, as usual."_

_John's trademark smile. It was the first thing Sherlock thought of when he came to on Molly Hooper's metal table._

"Mycroft, please….tell me."

"You lost that right when you practically destroyed the man."

"You know why, you know! Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, he would have killed them. He would have killed John."

Mycroft Holmes stood implacable within 221b.

Mrs. Hudson, tears still dripping down her face, watched near the kitchen. Sherlock's face still stung from the slap.

Sherlock Holmes, even thinner and edgier if that was possible, paced like a wild animal in front of his older brother.

"Moran knows, he'll kill him. Mycroft, for god's sake."

"Sherlock, I have surveillance on the good doctor. Someone had to make sure he stayed safe despite his unhealthy obsession with suicidal activities."

Mrs. Hudson sobbed quietly.

"My apologies Mrs. Hudson. I know you tried. He couldn't stay here, therefore the need for more, detailed, observation."

Sherlock yanked at his short curls. 14 months, six days, three hours….twenty four minutes…..

Sherlock's countdown had never stopped. He couldn't delete it.

And now, when he could stand it no longer, when the danger he hoped he had eliminated had finally re-emerged, his damned brother stood in his way.

Sherlock only had a note, but he recognized the writing.

He'd been tracking the man, and eliminating the man's allies, dismantling the web as it were, every moment of his absence.

Then, only days before, he'd received it.

_You took what was mine, now I'll take what was yours. Come out, come out wherever you are._

And Sherlock didn't need a signature to know exactly who had sent it.

He was frantic.

Mycroft hid his sympathy well. It wasn't too difficult, really. His own fury at his brother's actions and the, yea gods sentiment, pain at his brother's absence allowed his cold rage to hold Sherlock's pleading at bay.

Except Sherlock didn't act this way. This Sherlock had been chipped away, pulled, prodded and stretched. He had gone through agony that was worse than anything his drug withdrawals could induce.

The moment his colleagues had shown him what was transpiring at 221b Baker Street Mycroft made a painful decision.

He owed it to John Watson.

Sherlock finally stood up straight.

"If John dies…." He began, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Then you shall know perhaps a fraction of the pain the doctor has gone through this past year." It was the most heartless, unforgivable thing the brothers had said to each other.

Sherlock actually staggered back.

At that convenient moment, Mycroft's phone beeped. Mycroft Holmes' face drained of all color and Sherlock felt the room spin.

"There's been an incident."

Complete, frozen silence in the room.

"Dr. Watson has been shot."

The buzzing in the detective's ears somehow couldn't keep out Mrs. Hudson's sobbing or Mycroft's shouted explanations.

It was only when his brother hauled him over to the couch and forced him down, then grasped the younger man's head in his hands that Sherlock began to listen.

"Sherlock, SHERLOCK! Moran is dead, do you understand? We have all, I hope, underestimated the good doctor for the last time."

"J-John…..?" Sherlock whispered, weakly.

Mycroft sighed and his age showed then, suddenly.

"Wounded, that is all I know."

It was his room, his old room. John knew instinctively.

He'd been happy here and he'd tried being happy, after.

The memory of Mrs. Hudson's tired, sweet, tear-stained face still twisted his heart.

If he could have, he would. He never wanted to leave the dear woman. But, he just couldn't.

But the way the sunlight came through the window, the angles of the room, his bed, his space, everything shouted, no, bellowed, 'You belong here, John Watson'.

He'd never heard it until he went away.

He was here, again and his heart seized, again. He didn't even ask why, it was futile, asking why.

No violin, no gun shots, no annoying texts at all hours. No grotesque experiments, no body parts in the toilet, no toxins in the tea kettle.

No Sherlock.

John couldn't bear it.

He moved to sit up and felt a stabbing pain in his side.

Confused, he slowly opened his eyes. The ceiling, the way the light shifted, the familiar pressure at his back. All he recognized.

But the searing pain in his side he didn't

Eyes slit, he carefully pulled his jumper up, then his shirt. A bloody bandage stood out starkly and it all came barreling back.

_The tall, scarred man. Sniper, ex-military, the light in his cold eyes something John recognized. Some men were eventually pushed over the edge._

_Some men got to like what they were doing, to other soldiers, to civilians and then they became addicted to it. The violence, the killing._

_This man took it to the next level. Not only did he enjoy it, he _reveled_ in it. It was all he had to live for._

_A scuffle, a fight. John fleetingly wondered why the man hadn't just shot him through his sniper's aim. John wouldn't have asked these questions a year ago._

_John was small and Sebastian Moran was large. Both were ex-military, both crack shots and only one had the morality to care about right and wrong._

_Moran's bullet seared into John's side, missing his liver by inches. A fatal shot no doubt, had it landed._

_But what Moran thought he'd felt for Jim Moriarty was false. Addiction can play you like a badly tuned piano and psychosis mixed with violence is not a love story._

_Moriarty, and Moran by extension, didn't have friends. The concept was completely foreign to them._

_Obsession, co-dependency, yes, absolutely. But friendship and love? Alien, unwelcome ideas._

_So John's hands were steady and Moran's were not. John hated taking human life, even though this one could barely be classified as such._

_It wouldn't bring Sherlock back._

_But John had seen what Sherlock could become, in the insanity of Moriarty's mind. John looked at Sebastian Moran and was suddenly so grateful to the detective, for saving him, in so many ways._

"Th-thank you…." John murmured, voice softened by his pain.

A strong, long-fingered hand grasped his shoulder and gently moved him back onto the bed.

That touch, even a familiar, presence, nearly broke John's heart.

He had to leave, now. Now he was painfully reminded why he'd left 221b in the first place.

He made to sit up, eyes still unfocused when a deep voice stopped him completely.

"John, you need to lie still. A few ribs are broken, just, be still."

There was power and confidence in that voice, and heartbreak as well.

The hand gently stroked his forehead.

John finally managed to open his eyes.

The miracle he'd asked for long ago sat there, pain, no, despair even, in the pale eyes.

The hand continued to stroke John's forehead, his hair, the side of his face.

"John." Sherlock's deep voice whispered.

John wasn't dreaming, he wasn't hallucinating.

His dearest friend sat there and John knew, somehow, it was real.

"You…you…"

Sherlock looked panicked, his pain showing through his features so easily.

"You are, amazing."

Sherlock blinked.

"That's not what people normally say, eh? In these situations?" John whispered, his joy nearly choking him.

"A miracle, John. You asked for it, I received it. Forgive me."

"Could it be that I trust Sherlock Holmes?" John said, his emotions still playing clearly on his face, but the man in front of him was real. Real, and alive. And hugging him.

Sherlock let his tears leak out. Why was John this way, why? What had he done to have someone like John Watson in his life?

There are some questions that cannot be deduced. So he just let his mind surrender.

My dear Watson, my doctor, my colleague, my companion, my anchor, my aide, my comfort, my cure for the loneliness, my laughter given and received, my surprise, my new meaning in life, my adventurer, my soldier, my eye in the hurricane, my calm in the storm, my truth, my support, my conscience, my lesson, my study in faith, my compassion, my light, my inspiration, my friend, my soul mate, my heart, my life…My Everything.

Mine.

John's hand, smaller than Sherlock's long-fingered one, was rough and calloused. The doctor held on to this apparition turned real. They held onto each other and nothing, ever, not even time, could separate them.

"Mine." Sherlock whispered.

"Yours."


End file.
